


those chosen

by seb



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen, among other things, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seb/pseuds/seb
Summary: Sephiroth dies, and the cycle begins again.—A study on the self; an allegory for suicide.
Kudos: 10





	those chosen

It is brutal, and bloody, and never-ending. A dreamscape, almost, but something’s gone awry. No, it’s more like a nightmare. 

Sephiroth cuts down two more bodies— fragments— pieces of himself. He feels them wail, and bleed, and burn as their ashes dissipate in the wind. 

“Who’s next?” Sephiroth yells to the sky, bloodied blade in hand. “What more of me do you want?”

There is no answer. There never has been. 

There is a rustle behind him and he whirls around, face-to-face with—

“Cloud,” Sephiroth says on a breath, sounding surprised—  _ relieved _ , almost. A face among the faceless, someone who is not a piece of himself. Something tangible and real and familiar. The grip on his blade loosens. 

“Sephiroth,” Cloud replies, but it is not more than a snarl between his teeth. Then, he is rushing towards him. 

Sephiroth regains his footing in time to block the swing going straight for his neck— with effort, he realizes with disdain. 

“Cloud,” Sephiroth says again, and he’s desperate. “Listen to me—“

“Enough,” Cloud spits. “I’ve had  _ enough _ of you.”

It is a dance of blades. Where Sephiroth stumbles, Cloud aims, and Sephiroth stumbles out of the way. An endless cycle in an endless nightmare.

“Please—“ Sephiroth begs. “I’m sorry—“

“I said  _ enough _ !” With the sickening sound of metal against metal, Cloud brings his blade down against Sephiroth’s. They are held two arm’s lengths away. “Aren’t you tired of hearing yourself speak?  _ I _ am. I’m sick of it— of you.” He takes a step. Sephiroth falters. Cloud takes another. “I thought you’d realize it by now. The truth.”

“No,” Sephiroth whispers. 

“Yes.” There’s a wall behind Sephiroth. He can feel it, though he’s not against it. Yet. “You are nothing but a monster. You had every opportunity to change— yet  _ here _ you are.”

_ Destroying myself _ , Sephiroth thinks.  _ Crying out for help _ . Where had he gone wrong again?

In his lapse of attention, Cloud knocks Masamune out of his hand. “Pathetic,” Cloud continues. “You think you’re any better than the people that made you who you are? You’re  _ pathetic _ .”

_ I am nothing but those that made me who I am _ , Sephiroth parrots in his head deliriously.  _ I am the abuse I have been dealt _ . It is an onslaught of Sephiroth’s deepest fears.

The wall. Sephiroth’s back slams into it and his vision blurs. There is no point in words anymore. Emotions come to him like a hailstorm.

“Won’t even fight for yourself,” Cloud says, disgusted. “You won’t do anything for yourself— or for others, for that matter. You don’t do  _ anything _ .”

_ Please _ , he thinks, as Cloud’s blade impales him. Sephiroth’s hands scrabble at the edges, Cut a million times over as he struggles.

“You’re a disgrace,” Cloud spits, pressing the blade impossibly inward. “You’re  _ nothing _ .”

Suddenly, all the shards fit like a mosaic, come together into one for this moment alone. Sephiroth’s eyes roll back in his head, the pain indescribable. He opens his mouth to speak and blood pours forth.

“I know,” he chokes out, and blood splatters on Cloud’s face. 

After an agonizing moment, Cloud speaks again. “I love watching the life drain from your eyes.” He shifts the blade up, effectively cutting him open. Sephiroth can feel his clothes sag, drenched with his diseased blood. “I love watching you fight it. Just give up, Sephiroth. We’ve all had enough.”

It takes too long for both of their tastes. Sephiroth gives in and gives up. His body slumps back against the wall, sliding down; Cloud’s blade follows. He needs to be presentable, after all.

His death is a glorious affair. His body is strung for all to see. People gather to gawk, to cheer, to shun. 

But the puzzle is incomplete. A piece is missing from it all.

He does not decay, nor burn, nor bury. His body serves as a reminder of sweet victory.

It doesn’t feel like winning anymore.

_ Try again _ ?

**Author's Note:**

> No, I'm not okay, keep scrolling.


End file.
